Runaway Bride and Prejudice (Appies, #5)

by Emma St. Clair

We met randomly. Talked. Thought she might be my soulmate. Then I realized she was my coach’s daughter. The quintessential Romeo and Juliet story. But with more hockey and hopefully with less death and mayhem.

But I know how it goes. First comes the sunshine and rainbows and heart-eye emojis. Then

comes the fighting. The cheating. The inevitable, messy breakup. The aftermath. It’s the circle of love.

So, for months I tried to forget her. I tried dating her out of my system, but it’s like meeting Amelia altered my brain chemistry. I compared every woman to the one with the sweet smile who stole my fries and made me feel like I was the living embodiment of a Taylor Swift song. One of the happy ones, not the breakup ones.

Anyone with a frontal lobe knows telling women to calm down is the equivalent of waving a whole barrage of red flags at an angry bull. I bristle, feeling my nostrils flare and my lip curl.

I’m not sure who dubbed him my protector, but he’s clearly taking on that role. While I should tell him to get lost, I find myself shifting closer. If for no other reason than to use him as a physical barrier. The dude is huge, and will definitely make a good fiancé blocker should I need one.

No offense to Coach, but his brother seems about as smart as a bag of rocks. He and Drew are cut from the same cloth, purchased at the store that sells stupid by the yard.

“You take angry naps?” I ask. “Oh, yeah. I also post-game nap, sleepy nap, sad nap—you name it, I’ll nap it.”

I’m not sure why Mr. Misogyny speaks in my head with a cowboy’s drawl, but he always does. No offense to cowboys.

Earlier in the car, Van said he didn’t need lines to pick up women. I think he was trying to be funny, pushing a certain narrative that may not be accurate. But it’s clearly based in some truth. Because I, for one, am practically ready to eat out of Van’s hand.

Slowly, and with the devilish smirk to measure all other devilish smirks against, Van lifts one finger to his mouth. Slowly, his tongue darts out and he licks the tip, and then uses it to turn the next page of the magazine. Which he is not even pretending to read.

“I don’t come close to being good enough for Amelia. But if she were mine? I would never let her go. I would spend every waking day and every single breath just hoping I could show her the love she deserves.”

“You good, Mills?” Because I’m not. In fact, I’m starting to suspect Amelia is going to ruin me. But I sure am enjoying the ride. Amelia smiles and my ribs suddenly feel tight. “Yeah, I’m good, hotshot.”

But being with Van this week has, if anything, inflated and expanded my heart, like it’s pumping stronger and steadier than before. As though his presence hasn’t simply had a healing effect but one that multiplies me.

I’ve never been like this with anyone—embracing passion and playfulness like two sides of the same coin. It only works because the currency is trust.

Diet Dr Pepper, my guilty pleasure when I need a little pick me up. Dad loves to tell me that the chemicals in soda will kill me one day, but I figure we're all dying anyway. Might as well die drinking something I love.

“Never ever ever date the coach’s daughter,” Eli says. “Like … ever.” He’s serious for the first part, and then channels Taylor Swift.

“I get it. Like the lady said, everyone needs to blow off steam. Find an easy hook-up.” “Amelia is not some hook-up! She’s everything. She’s my wife.”

Theodore is bright green, and when I saw him in the pet store, he immediately reminded me of Alvin and the Chipmunks. As to why I felt the need to go to a pet store and buy a fish after lying to Amelia about having one, I don’t know. It just seemed important at the time. And maybe I was lonely.

“No one calls it game anymore,” Lex says. “It’s gross.” “And demeaning,” Callie adds. “I was kidding.” Mostly. “It’s rizz now,” says Greyson. “Not game.” “Then it affected my rizz.” “Or lack thereof?” Grey suggests with a smile.

“I don’t want an annulment or a dissolution or a divorce,” he says, and I have to crane my neck to stare into his inky dark eyes. “I want more than the one night I had with you. I want all your days too. I want to come home knowing you’ll be here. I want to look up from the ice and see you there, wearing my jersey, shouting my name.”

“I want to watch you find out what a life without following the rules looks like. Or, maybe—to find out which rules are worth following and which ones are worth breaking. On your terms. I want to be the one cheering for you and your dreams, wearing your jersey. Figuratively speaking.”

Home is a general term. I’m not lying, exactly, even if I’m not at the house where my current bedroom is. What is home, anyway? Would a home by any other name smell as sweet? I’m not sure Shakespeare’s question makes sense in this context, but I do know that no other comforter would smell as good as the one I’m wrapped up in.

I keep a hand firmly clamped over my head as Van pulls me through the room. There are catcalls and shouts and people making kissing sounds. Someone starts singing the chorus to Taylor Swift’s “I Knew You Were Trouble.” Van slows, and I hear the sound of a door being pulled open. “You’ve got a nice voice,” I call. “I think the more appropriate song, though, is ‘But Daddy I Love Him.’”

“You and your paperwork,” Amelia says, giving Summer a look. “Are you going to try to tell me that Van’s not my husband? Because he is. He was my husband from the time I said I do and till death do us part and all the other stuff on the beach. Now, we’ve done all that two times. He is my husband twice over and then some. Don’t you try to take this away from me. It’s unconstitutional.”